By Day and By Night

Chapter Three: Every Man For Himself

The music hall is abuzz with activity, and for a moment I wonder if I'm late. But, as I look up at the oversized digital clock on the wall, I thank the stars that I'm not.

I spend the next minute and a half steadying my breathing, because no one has noticed I've come in and I want to work out my plan of action. The door closed behind me with absolutely no noise, which seemed stark contrast to the scene before me.

I have never seen anything like it in my life. A cacophony of sound batters the walls, and it's almost like the floors are buzzing with the noise. I can feel the music vibrating through my trainers, right through to the top of my head. The room is deceptively small for the double doors that lead into it, but a set of wooden baffles at the back of the space make me think there's perhaps more space than first appears. I take a 360 degree turn and take in every detail. I hadn't realised quite how much comfort I'd find from being in a familiar space. Headmaster's office, no thank you. Music hall, I'm in my element. I try to create a photograph in my memory of the room. To my left is a big sign that tells you to turn off your mobile phones, which I do immediately as I see it. Chairs are stacked up next to it, and there must be about 200 of them. I can't imagine this room holding 200 people, but it must do. But the furnishings and wall signs are by no means the most fascinating thing about this room. I've never seen so much passion radiating from so few people. There are only 5 people in here, excluding me, and each of them holds such mystery I can't decide where to look.

The first person my eyes rest upon is a lad in the corner of the room furthest from me, who's strumming at an acoustic guitar. His head is down so I can't see his face, but a chestnut brown, stylishly messy mop of hair is reminding me of every wannabe popstar I've ever laid eyes on. They all do that thing where they look up at you through their eyebrows and tousle their hair about with one hand as if they're fluffing up a sofa cushion. I vowed to myself when I signed with Clarival Records that I would never date another singer. Can you imagine the competition? I'd rather die. Not to mention the boys are all self-obsessed, horny dunces with an IQ barely into double figures.

I go from unwanted recognition to total unfamiliarity. With her back to me, there's a waterfall of cherry red hair, rocking back and forth as a saxophone tumbles out notes from a jazz tune I've never heard. The girl is tapping her foot and her hips sway in time to the music she's playing. It's like no one else in the room matters. I see no sheet music, so she must know it off by heart. Her outfit is like something off a magazine cover, too. She's wearing white Doc Martens and white and black checked suit trousers that hug her figure in all the right ways and flare out slightly at the bottom. She's small, petite in all areas, but taller than average, I think. Above the suit trousers, her outfit becomes a little less conventional and more like something I'm used to seeing in the backstage corridors of various arenas around the world. She's sporting a beige hoodie with something written on the back, which I can't read because her hair covers it, and then a black beret embroidered with a cherry, matching the waterfall down her back.

Before I can fully assess the other three people in the room, the doors behind me bash open and someone clatters through them, straight into me, sending me flying into the room, catching myself on a table that's miraculously placed in the middle of the room. A pair of glasses skitter along the floor next to me, and someone is guffawing in front of me.

Someone hauls me up from clinging to the table for dear life, and brushes me down.

"Ah yes, apologies about that. I tend to make a bit of an entrance and usually no one's stood directly behind the doors." A man in a navy suit and clutching a pile of sheet music is looking at me as if I might suddenly shatter into a thousand pieces. It takes me a few seconds to steady myself, but it's nothing I've not survived before.

"Don't worry about it." I flap a hand in front of my face, and the man furrows his brow for a few milliseconds more, and then places his glasses back on his face and turns to face the room. Clearly something isn't quite right, because he immediately tucks the sheet music under his arm, takes off his glasses and scrubs them on his sleeve.

"Oh, blast." He says, to which someone behind me sniggers.

"They've cracked." And as I look, I see that, indeed, his glasses have a crack pretty much straight down the middle of the right lens. I want the ground to swallow me up. Within an hour of being in education, Diana Miller has embarrassed herself in front of the Headmaster, and broken who I assume to be the music teacher's expensive-looking glasses. Diamond Rose would never have been so clumsy. The man in the navy suit tucks his broken glasses into the pocket of his blazer, and claps his hands together, managing to keep hold of the music tucked under his arm.

"Right, chaps," He addresses the room like a general sending his troops off to battle. A 'ping' comes from behind me, and I instinctively clamp a hand to my jean pocket, worrying I'm about to embarrass myself further.

"Rex, phone off please." So, he is the teacher, I was right. The boy with the chestnut hair rolls his eyes pointedly and reaches reluctantly into the backpack next to him to turn it off. I take a deep breath; it wasn't my phone.

"As I was saying, today is the start of a new term, and the start of my favourite project- COMPOSITION!" Mr. Navy Suit (as I am affectionately naming him until I find out his real one) does jazz hands on the final word, as if he expects the room to burst out into rapturous applause. It doesn't, and he looks a little sad. I'm about to start whooping, when I remember who and where I am, and I stop myself. I take a moment to look at the 5 other students in the room, who look equally unimpressed, except for one boy in the corner who has said nothing but whose face breaks into a grin so wide it's difficult not to join in.

"Mr D, that's ace!" He does speak now, and he's Scottish. The accent is strong but gentle at the same time; charming. I try not to look too hard at him, because he's what most girls my age would swoon over, but I'm here to study. He's got such white teeth that some of the makeup artists I've seen on tour would be envious, and I'm not sure the hair team would want to touch a hair on his head. He's so...polished. Everything I was worried I'd be when I walked through the gates this morning. He's wearing a shirt, baby blue and cuffs rolled up, not tucked in to a pair of navy blue jeans, cuffs rolled up, and brown loafers. He looks like he's just walked out of an advert for one of the hottest new men's fashion-wear stores.

"It is indeed, Rory, it is indeed. So, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to compose a piece of music, add lyrics, and compile a performance for the end of term showcase. Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy! This message will self destruct in five seconds." Mr. Navy Suit makes a dramatic explosion sound effect, claps again, and like magic, the other five students rush off to start work, I assume.

I stand aimlessly in the middle of the room for a bit, watching Mr Navy Suit disappear behind the wooden baffles, and then take out one of the brand new notebooks my mum bought for me in her first attempt to act like a normal parent. It's bright pink, shiny, and covered with loads of geometric shapes that make my eyes hurt. But at least she made the effort. I take a pencil out from my jacket pocket and scribble down "COMPOSITION PROJECT ????".

"Everything alright over here?" Mr Navy Suit has returned, and leans over the table so close to me he nearly head butts me.

"Sorry, sir, I'm Diana Miller. It's my first day." I think to myself as I'm saying this that I shouldn't need to explain to the faculty that I'm new here and might need some guidance as to what mad house I've just walked in to.

"Of course! Diana, Diana, I remember now. To be honest I thought you were a random who was just observing!" He chuckles to himself, but then coughs and straightens up immediately when I don't laugh with him. I'm too busy looking over his shoulder at Rory, who is frantically jotting things down in a plain black notebook, and it reminds me of the ones I use at home to write my new songs. I nearly brought one with me today but I didn't want to risk blowing my cover.

"Sorry. Anyway, I'm Mr Dennis, and welcome to music class. Is this your first foray into the beautiful world of notes and lyrics?"

You have no idea, Mr D, you have no idea.

"Yes, yes sir, it is."